


Everything Else

by BamSara



Series: EE&E Universe (Mad Scientist & Arsonist Assistant AU) [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assistant Willow, Banter, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Hallucinations, Humor, Insane!Wilson in one story, Kissing, Love Letters, One Shot Collection, Running from the law, Train Rides, Wx-78 is Wilson's creation, shadow creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BamSara/pseuds/BamSara
Summary: Simply: polite gentleman, although slightly unhinged, mad scientist Wilson and Willow, his fugitive assistant with a penchant for 'accidently' setting things on fire.A collection of short one-shots in the EE&E universe on various points in the timeline.(Recommended you read 'Experimentation, Embers, and Everything Else' first, but can be skipped.)
Relationships: Willow/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: EE&E Universe (Mad Scientist & Arsonist Assistant AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159217
Comments: 25
Kudos: 48





	1. Love Letter

**Author's Note:**

> surprise bitch, bet you thought you seen the last of me

“Yes, yes, read off the measurements for me, please.”

Wilson, goggles down and fully engrossed in the observation of the liquid at hand, held over an odd looking mineral on a tray a few inches away, waves her over. “The measurements, Willow.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard ya.” Willow's hands are digging through one of his cabinets drawers, the old wood creaking as she pulls papers side to side to find the right folder. (The scientist was disorganized when it came to his work, just a bit.) Her gloves keep her safe from splinters and paper cuts, and she likes the black sheen that comes off of it. Matches her boss's.

Her thumb finds the right folder and digs it out, flipping through the tabs until the name of the mineral sticks out and she weeds it out of the folder.

She curses under her breath when a few other pages fall to the floor, but ignores them for the time being. “Four pounds. Seven inches in length and five in width.”

The scientist moves his eyes from the rock to her with a raised brow. “That’s it? I'm certain I wrote more.”

Her tongue pokes at him momentarily. “There's more words on here but I can't read the handwriting.” She says. “And you said MY handwriting was terrible. Ha!”

Wilson pouts, places the beaker back in its holder and sets his hand outwards. “I've seen your handwriting and it's in need of a tutor. It's not my fault you can't read cursive very well.” A faint smile from him. “Let me see it here.”

She passes it to him, Wilson scanning over the notes as she turns away to pick up the forgotten papers on the floor. Messy, messy is what they were, crumpled up and the pages almost completely black with ink stains so prominent she's sure it may have stained her hands had she not been wearing gloves alike the same colour. Still, the firestarter squints at the wording. Might as well try to put it in its correct place than just shoving it back in the drawers again.

Though, its proven difficult. The sentences are scrambled and she can pick out a few key words; Home. Red. Star. Fire. Hope. The last part makes her blink, and briefly she wonders if this is another code name for an experiment of his that he has yet to share with her. He was forgetful of that, she remembers.

“What's this supposed to be?” She brings the crumpled papers up and waves them in front of the scientist. “Old notes?” 

He doesn't look up right away, eyes behind the glass of the goggles glued to the notes already in hand, but when he turns up to face her, they look into what she's holding and Willow is certain that the already pale man has gone even paler. “...Trash. Old. Nothing of interest.”

He sounds deadpan. But not inherently, like he's trying his hardest to not sound conspicuous. She's gotten good at noticing that with him. Her mouth thins into a line and turns the ruined notes over in her hands, still scanning for anything readable. She misses the stiffness that has overcome her boss. “They're nothing, really. Just old work. Nothing of use. You can throw them away. Or burn them.” A pause. Willow looks back up at him. Weird, he really didn't like her fire being near any of his notes. Old or not. “Give it here.”

Wilson outstretches his hand and finds it empty. Willow holds the letter away from him with a familiar, mischievous smile. One he's grown fond of, one he thinks about when the pen settles in his hand and the doodles just appear in the margins of his pages. It's warm, makes him feel that way usually, but now? There's a touch of fear and unwelcome embarrassment that he doesn't want to bank on. 

“Willow.” He stresses her name. She giggles at the stern tone in his voice. “What's it supposed to be? Some super secret formula for super powers?”

His hand falls limply to his side. By this point he's already stood from his chair and is facing her fully. The buttons on the lab coat around his neck feel tighter. “Hardly”

“Lemme know what it is.”

“It's work notes, just science stuff.”

“...and?”

“And you should give things back that aren't yours.”

He takes a timid step forward and Willow snorts at the action. “I'm part of your work. Whatcha trying to hide?”

Part of his work. Part of his work. He knows well enough that she's meaning her position as his assistant but the irony in her sentence flies over her own head and rings in his ears. There's a fondness he felt for her childish behavior, and while he's quite certain those notes are unreadable and she'll have a hell of a time making out what was on them, he knows what was written. And the sight of her holding the pages gave him the exact kind of feeling he was trying to keep down. 

So Wilson thinks of a lie and he thinks of a good one. “I was going to give Wx a fire extinguishing feature.” He says. Her face falls and he inwardly grins. “Though I don't think you would have cared for it much.”

His assistant stares at him, then groans, rolling her eyes and fishing out her beloved lighter (never without it, he notes, not even in his laboratory) and flicks the flame on. “Ugh. Can't believe you'd betray me like that.”

Her jest makes him laugh, and relief floods him as he watches her light the pages on fire and lets it cinder to ash. The room sorta smells like hot ink and smolder now, but he doesn't mind. It's a preference he's come to like more than the usual chemical smells this room has been caked in. “On the contrary, I'd never betray you.” He smiles and sits back down. Crisis averted. “You don't trust me?”

Willow beams at him, flicking the remainder of his poor excuse of a love letter (he'll never tell her what she just burned, the entire calm façade he has will crumble if she knew what a jelly she reduced him to.) And leans over to run her ashy fingers over his scalp and thumbs strap of his goggles. 

Wilson nearly hiccups as she brings the goggles upwards and she laughs at the red flush the headwear was originally hiding. “Yeah, sure.” She points at the original folder. “Can you teach me how to write in cursive?”

The sudden request is so abrupt that Wilson chokes out a nervous hiccup that he didn't know he was holding back, and he promptly promises her that he will if she would please focus on the science at hand.


	2. Mr. Skitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson watches the little thing move, clicks his pen and scribbles down ‘Mr. Skitz’ in neat, fine letters. “There. A very scientific name.”

It sits atop his desk as he watches it. He can see his pen holder through it’s body, the paperwork he’s left scattered out. It has no legs, no fur and no visible retina, but appears to have a jagged mouth, the jaw raised up in zig-zag lines to mimic teeth. Two circular holes above it, as if to imply eye sockets. It doesn’t have legs, instead something more akin to a jagged tale sticking out the other end, the creature resting on his paperwork in compliancy.

It sits like an obedient dog. Or a watchful one. Wide eyed, gaze never leaving him. It makes no noise. It’s been sitting here for a while now, as it comes and goes every other day or so. Wilson wonders if he had left the window open and the poor thing has come to think of this place as it’s home.

It may be the creature’s skin and how the light reflects off of it, but the thing looks partially transparent. Hesitating, then Wilson picks up a pen and holds it above it’s head. The creature looks up to it, a little fidgety in it’s stance, before he drops it.

It falls right through it’s form, clatters to the wood and rolls right over to the poorly patched up hole Wilson has yet to fully repair. The creature looks to the said hole with some semblance of amusement.

The scientist leans back in his chair, picking back up the pen and tilting his head. “You need a name, don’t you?” He speaks out loud, knowing full well it won’t answer him. “A scientific name.”

The creature’s tail wiggles and it scatters in a circle on his desk, not disturbing the work he’s laid out, yet Wilson can hear the soft chattering noise (and something that sounds like a whisper lost in a breeze) as it dances.

Wilson watches the little thing move, clicks his pen and scribbles down ‘Mr. Skitz’ in neat, fine letters. “There. A very scientific name.”

It does not answer him. The sound of the attic door opening and closing rafts it’s attention from scientists to the new arrival. He doesn’t need to turn around to see who it could be.

“Hey nerd, I got all of your junk you needed.” Something heavy clunks to the ground and Wilson turns to see Willow hovering over a box, shifting through the assortment inside. “What do we even need these for anyway? Wx-78 doesn’t need any repairs right now.”

“It’s for another experiment.” He tells her, rising from his seat. He tears off his gloves and places them on the sanitation rack. Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Skits watches Willow. “I’m conducting it right now, actually. Well, I was. I suppose it’s getting too late for me to continue.”

Willow has either not noticed the creature upon the desk or pays no heed to it, instead nodding her head out to the sunset coming across the sky through the attic window. “So you’ve finally decided to have a normal sleep schedule like a regular human being. Nice.”

He frankly ignores her playfully commentary. “I have a distinct memory that someone didn’t want to go pick up the postage without an escort this evening.”

“Hey! You know how dark it gets now!” She wrinkles her nose at him, but there’s a smile on her face. “It’s winter hours.”

“It’s daylight savings.” He corrects, promptly shrugging off his lab coat and hanging it up. Though the attic wasn’t as warm as downstairs, Wilson doubly checks the window is cracked open. Mr. Skitz is staring at the opening he’s left for it, but makes no move towards the outside. No matter, he’s sure that it’ll leave eventually. He’s no stranger to an amiss of birds straying into his attic every now and then.

He turns to the door, and Willow is giving an odd look. “You’ll let all the cold air in.” 

Wilson raises a brow to her. “With how you keep the fire, I think it’s a blessing.”

“Hush. Let’s go before it gets too dark out.”

He tells her to wait just for a moment, stacking his papers into a neat pile and the scattered pens into their respective places, mummering little notes under his breath from today’s research and tomorrow's possibilities. The creature glares at his hands as it moves too close to it, making the slightest hiss (it’s very cute, like a baby snake, he thinks) before it scatters off his desk and drops to the floor.

He thinks it makes for the window, but the creature turns in the opposite direction. Wilson’s hand movements pause as he watches the creature glide up the wall, skittering across the wood as if there was no traction. It stays glued to the surface, staring at him, then to his assistant, back to his surprised face again. It clacks it’s teeth.

“Wilson?” Willow’s voice breaks through, and the scientist, perhaps out of apprehension or protectiveness, takes a timid step backwards towards her. “What’s up with you?”

Blue eyes blink, once, twice. If his assistant wasn’t affected by it, then it was surely nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to worry about. “Little bugger.”

Amber eyes narrow. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” Turning away from the creature on the wall, he misses how it creeps close the second his gaze is turned. “Let’s go.”

She smiles at him, and he relishes the sight of it before something darker darts into view.

The creature crawls against the wall at a speed not-unlike a preying spider, mouth open and closing, shadowed teeth outwards and seemingly making a bee-line for his assistant’s neck-

Willow makes a surprised squeak when Wilson suddenly scraps a hand against her neck, fingers tugging at the hair in her pigtails and catching in her tangles until it’s pulled roughly away and nearly tearing her shirt collar as he rips his hand away.

Her own comes up to wrap her palm around her skin. “What was that for?!”

It squirms in his hands. Wilson stares at it. He feels it, even through his gloves, through the bandages underneath, seeping back into his skin. Mr. Skitz screeched pathetically with his fingers squeezing around it’s neck, very, very solid despite it’s transparency with the pen earlier, and Wilson is brought back to the thought that even the cutest of snakes have fangs and venom.

Then it just...disappears.

Gone. Faded away. It’s there and suddenly it’s not. He didn’t even blink.

“Wilson!” She calls out to him again, brows furrowed and eyes darting down to his empty hand. “What-”

“It was on you. In your hair.” He quickly says. He does not mention it’s teeth. “It came in through the window, I think.”

She gives him a scrunched up look, her palm dropping slowly from the spot she’s instinctively covered and taking small, timid steps towards him. “But there was nothing here.”

He looks up from his hand to her. “Nothing?”

“I didn’t see anything.” Willow tilts her head at him. “You sure you’re not tired enough to go with me? I can go by myself, really-”

“No, no. I’m fine.” There’s a shake in his hand that he doesn’t know if she can tell or not, so he shoved it unceremoniously into his trouser pockets and musters up a face of façade he’s perfected over years and years of social isolation. It’s cracking. “I’m sure it was just a fly, is all. It’s gone now, I may have lost it.”

A moment passes, the scrutiny doesn’t leave immediately, but the tension in Willow’s shoulders drop and that smile comes back again. “Maybe you should hire a frog to deal with your ‘fly problem’.”

Her lighthearted joke is not unwelcome. “I’ve apparently hired a teddy bear already. I do believe I’m a private researcher, not a company.” 

She laughs, says something along the lines of not knowing the difference and Wilson makes a note to explain to her the lines that divide those who pursue science in the company of a college and those who do it alone. 

Willow is the first to bound down the stairs, gathering their coats and complaining about the cold. Wilson locks the attic window, and joins her downstairs.


	3. I (lava) You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My face is..issa meltin" she brings her hand up to cover his, pressing the tissue against her cheek. "Wilson im meltin-!"
> 
> "Well its about time !" He ignores her resistance and muffles her giggles, one hand pushing back her hair and the other desperately trying to wipe the lipstick from her chin. "You've had me melting for months."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: They're tipsy in this, so be aware if you do not want to read drunken stuff.

It's very obvious that he's uncomfortable.

The fidget in his fingers, twirling a pen in between his knuckles and into his palm, keeping his hands busy. Not making eye contact with a single soul in the room, not a smile or even a polite nod of the head as someone passed by. Just a constant status of observation, quiet, posed. Wilson is the definition of a wallflower.

Willow, on the other hand, is having quite the party.

Maybe she had a little bit too much to drink. Okay, 'maybe' was underselling it. She had too much to drink, the sloppy movements in her twirling and the bubbly hiccups that accompany her laughter are a clear indication of it. Her intoxication is evident, the flush on her face is red and soft.

Charlie is a good dance partner, the two of them spinning in delight with joined hands and pretty lights. Her heels are starting to hurt on her feet, her face is hot and hurts from smiling so much but the brunette is having quite a fun time. Quite a fun time indeed, she doesn't recall what time they were supposed to leave. Or where they were again? Why were they here again? Something about a theatre-

A grumbly voice, a very exhausted scientist and a drunk firestarter finding him in the dim lights and attaching herself to his arm in a clumsy stumble. She asks him in a hitched voice if he'd like to go  _ home _ .

It does not occur to her that Wilson may or may have not consumed alcohol just get through the night until they're in the dimly lit washroom of their house and he's trying his hardest (and failing miserably) to help her take off her makeup.

Through the haze and the blur, the world shifting, something wet and soft runs down the side of her face and across her nose. She laughs when he pulls the tissue back and he's snorting at the lines that's stretching across her chin. "You really…you've really got that lipstick uh...caked on, don't you?"

It's more than her lipstick that's been ruined. Her foundation has been uneven for hours and eyeliner is smudge across her eyelids akin to a crying racoon. But he still thinks she's beautiful. (And he tells her that, in a sloppy sentence and she giggles at that too.)

"My face is..issa meltin" she brings her hand up to cover his, pressing the tissue against her cheek. "Wilson im meltin-!"

"Well its about  _ time _ !" He ignores her resistance and muffles her giggles, one hand pushing back her hair and the other desperately trying to wipe the lipstick from her chin. "You've had me melting for months."

"Im a HOTROD!! HAHA!" She bats at his face. Her motor skills are horrible, her fingers run over his hair instead. "Months. Months. Meltin for months...like...lava? I like lava. I like you"

"I like you. I like you too" He squishes her cheeks together between his palms and smiles a loopy smile at her puffed out lips and funny lines in her face. "I lava you."

She immediately snorts an ugly laugh. It looks hilarious with her face scrunched up like that. "I lava you too. I'd lava you forever."

"I l-lava you more than science!"

"I lava you...more than Bernie!"

"I lava you more than my life!!"

"I lava you more than fire!!"

He holds his breath and gives her a look. Willow cannot prevent herself from sticking out her tongue and blowing out a raspberry at his expression. "Okayyy maybe not fire but like. You know. Same thing. It's the same thing."

The scientist, drunk as she is, cannot form the proper thought process needed to correct her wording. So he takes another tissue from the box, presses her closer to the washroom counter and counts the giggles that comes out f her as he foolishly wipes the lines running up and down her skin. "Dirty liars get no faced."

Willow screams a delightful laugh, a feeble effort to bat away his hands is made. His touch tickles. "Let me keep my face. Let me keep my fac-!"

A barrage of kisses, and the makeup is beginning to rub off onto Wilson's face as he pressed his lips to her forehead, her cheekbone,(but never her mouth. So ungentlemanly! So improper! To his own assistant, how dare he.) Her response is a bubbly hiccup. "My  _ face _ !"

"I lava you!" He's so much happier alone with her. So much drunker. "Look at you. _Look at_ _you_."

She giggles and shoves her face away from his own, finding safety in the crevice of his neck, clutching the unbuttoned shirt collar as to not pull her away. "I know I'm melting!"

Arms come around her. "Into my shirt? I just...i just cleaned this, Willow. I just cleaned this and…-and now you’ve gotten your lipstick  _ everywhere" _

"You'll forgive me cause you LAVA me!"

"I will not!"


	4. All Aboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He feels it against his shirt, feels her eyes staring at the pocket it's stashed away in too. Wilson places his hand in his lap and uses the other to squeeze hers. “No fire on the train. Not now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is sorta spoiler for the EE&E timeline, where I had initially planned for at some point there to be a conflict that caused Willow and Wilson to flee their hometown. Because of Wilson's reputation? Insanity? Willow's past? Who knows, I'll finish that story eventually.

She was nervous, as she does with a lot of things recently, but she was acting well. Well enough that it would have fooled Wilson himself had he been any unaware passerby. He wonders, briefly, as the people pass them by, busy in their own lives, if they are ever as preoccupied or involved in stories and events such as what has become of his life. Her life. Entirely, actually, now that she has become such a crucial piece of his own. But he does not tell her such things, nor does he entertain the thought of doing so, keeping his head straight and his chin upwards as they walk.

Briefly, Willow's hand feels like nervous jelly in his grip and he grasps it tighter without thinking about it. He would apologize, but there's no time. If she was bothered by it, she makes no sound of it anyways. 

A man in uniform takes their tickets, stares at her with fleeting, but earned suspicion, and points to a train car a bit downwards past a bustling bumble of people of all shapes, sizes and colors. A good camouflage. 

“Down the ways, to the left sir.” The stranger informs them in a tone of voice that he must have practiced many times before. “Take all luggage you have with you, please.”

Wilson nods, politely says thank you, and turns to make their way downwards. It's a few steps away when he feels a tug. Willow has stopped, eyes locked with the stranger and he can tell by the glare in the man's eyes he's either sizing her up or recognizing her fear. (A feeling, Wilson realizes, Willow has fallen victim too far too often lately) and the scientist is about to step in and complain about the hold up before the firestarter musters a smile and a soft tone of voice.

“M'sorry, sir. But I've think you've got the wrong woman.” She smiles. There’s a hint on an accent in her voice, mimicking Wilson's own best she could. It's fake, obviously so, but its cute and the man in uniform can't tell the difference anyways. Americans couldn't tell northern posh from southern dialect anyways, it was all 'british’ to them, the scientist remembers.

The stranger's eyes dart to their hands still interlocked, to her confused, polite smile then to slight irritation of Wilson's expression (whether he was trying to be convincing or it was just his face, the scientist couldn't even tell) before dipping his head and apologizing for the mistake, wishing them a good day and a safe trip.

Wilson can still feel the tension in her fingers even as they walk away, towards the crowd and towards the little cabin of privacy they would be afforded for a short time. He wants to ask what the stranger said, even though he has an idea of what could be. But not here, not now, where ears and eyes are everywhere and even the most common of rabble can be searched thoroughly for a criminal.

A man almost bumps into her as she lags behind, so he grips her hand tighter and pulls her, not quite yanks, but solidly brings her forward until their shoulders are touching, waiting in the line at the entrance in camouflaged silence. Hiding in plain sight, he remembers, briefly setting down their luggage (and not letting go of his assistant, science forbid) It worked better than he would believed.

Willow says nothing. The rabble around them chatter excessively. But she's quiet, uncharastically so. Wilson moves a finger to brush over her wrist, and to any other person it would only look as if he's just adjusting the lace of his hand with her own. But it's not quite so, and the scientist's suspicions are confirmed when he feels for her pulse and finds it racing.

His heart is racing too, only not from fear. “How are you doing, love?” He asks, only smiling when she raises her eyes from the ground to his own. (The nickname is incredibly self-indulgent and unnecessary, but to be able to say it to her face under the guise of it being a part of this facade of theirs was...selfish of him. He can't tell her that, though. Not a chance in his life.)

A deep part of him hopes for a blush to come across her face, but the death grip in his hand loosening and the furrowed expression she wore softening the slightest was enough to sate the thoughts for now. “I'm fine. Will be fine. When do we get on the train?”

The line moves as she talks, quickly and in short bursts. “Now, actually. I'm assuming you'll want the window seat?” Tone neutral, playful even. Just another bustling couple in the train station. “We won't crash, if that's what you're worried about.”  
She frowns at him, but says nothing. A fear of crashing is a reasonable excuse for how she looked at the moment, no matter how demeaning it seemed. Wilson picks up the luggage again and tries to keep pace with a jittery assistant. Jittery was bad. Jittery was suspicious. Anxiety is a dead giveaway. Those with nothing to hide show no fear. Fake it.

They make it to the train car, all the way inside past the uniforms and the people and the chatter and the eyes and ears and the scientist promptly plops their luggage into the seat, closing the sliding door with his free hand before joining Willow in the booth (hands between them still locked, it seems) and thumbing around his pocket for her lighter.

He feels it against his shirt, feels her eyes staring at the pocket it's stashed away in too. Wilson places his hand in his lap and uses the other to squeeze hers. “No fire on the train. Not now.”

She looks unhappy. Tense. Painfully so, but nods anyway and mumbles something under her breathe about him holding it and how she was perfectly capable of keeping it and not being tempted and how the seats smelled like cheap cleaner and the train was loud and her feet hurt already and little rambles and other complains that Wilson has never been so glad to hear come from her mouth. Anxiety in silence suffered, but Willow was speaking. Whispers, and only to him, but he could feel her relaxing in the privacy of their little car room, if only little and slowly.

A squeeze in his hand and Wilson suddenly remembers that their façade can end now. Willow has gone quiet again, looking at him expectantly with slack fingers around his palm and waiting for him to remove his arm. An unspoken question. Or a demand, either way, the acting was over, for now at least.

Wilson hesitates, fingers briefly going slack before tightening again. The brunette furrows her brows in confusion.

“Not yet.” He tells her. He needs to continue, tell her just in case someone checked in on them, that maybe it would look more convincing, or if the train jostled and she would be shaken a bit, or if for any reason they needed to bolt and run and just not to lose each other. Any reason, any excuse his big brain can muster up, no matter how weak it may be, an excuse is still an explanation.

But the words don't form and the look on her face doesn't falter, so Wilson opens his hand just enough to let her lose if she wanted to remove herself, pointedly avoids her eyes to stare out the window past her head and says gently again. “Not yet.”

A pause, then a hand curls back around his and he thinks it fits so perfectly. Soft and warm, memories of them bathed in fire and touching the bandage on his face once, so carefully and kind. Not exactly fragile, she was strong, braver than anyone he's ever met. This doesn't stop him from folding his grip protectively around her hand and sitting up straight so she could lean over if she wanted to. Not an invitation, he tells himself. At least not a verbal one.

She takes it anyway, trying to relax and resting her cheek on his shoulder, and Wilson feels a relief for anxiety he didn't realize he had as Willow takes deep breaths and slumps into his coat to combat her own nerves. “Are we there yet?”

In reality, the train hasn't even started moving. But Wilson grins at her joke anyways.


	5. Sunsets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow sounds groggy when she speaks. “That’s a good one. Maybe I’ll start doing experiments willy-nilly and come up with all sorts of crazy, mad ideas.” She grins. 
> 
> He bites his tongue at her choice of wording, but says nothing. “We can do an experiment right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-Continuation of the last chapter. Still holds EE&E future stuff spoilers.

The background noise of the train running over the tracks was somber, the rain against the window is almost poetic, Wilson thinks. The sky is a dark grey but the last streaks of a red and orange sunset blend in over the horizon. It’s a pretty scene, quiet and serene, but quickly fading.

For sake of conversation, he breaks the silence for the first time. “It rains a plenty in London, you know. You might want to take a look at the sun while you still can.” He jokes, and the woman to his side stirs from her daze. “It might be awhile before we come back.”   
  
She frowns at him. “Ugh. Don’t talk like that, I’ll get depressed. I’m missing enough vitamin D as it is and I don’t know about you, but I hate the rain.” The sound pitters against their window as she talks, and Wilson can’t help but think that it’s soothing. Her voice keeps him from dozing off though. “It’s all wet and….wet.”

He gives her a sleepy smile. “What a riveting observation. Have you considered it might also be moist?”

“I hate that word more than I hate the rain.”

It raises a chuckle out of him, a low one that rumbles out of his chest and only serves to lull Willow back into a more tired state. She refrains from leaning on him, sitting close but well in the back of her seat, staring out the window. Their train cubby isn’t small, could house maybe two more people even, but Wilson has made himself comfortable in between her and the doorway and she’s not in any mindset to move him. 

She steals a quick glance to his face, to his hair and the soft gaze he’s holding out towards the window. “Is your head still hurting you?”

Whatever tranquility he was in in prior seemed to diminish. “Yes. Though I’d prefer we not discuss it right now.”

A touch of guilt, and she tries to be light hearted. “I can kiss it better for you, if you want!”

He raises a brow, and doesn’t care to hide the slight flush at her words. She means nothing by them, obviously. “Tempting offer. But I’m afraid that’s impossible. It’s not physical.” 

“Yikes, shot down. Wouldn’t even give it a shot.” She pouts. When she sees his facial expression remain neutral, she looks away. “You know I’m only teasing you, right?”

“Of course I know that.” He refutes. She has a habit for that sort of thing, and part of him wishes she would stop to spare him the mercy. But Wilson doesn’t say that, instead he musters up a fake laugh and returns with a tease of his own. “I’d take you up on your offer, otherwise. Though I’d warn you that my brain is probably not as sanitary as kissing my forehead.” A pause. “Or my eye bandage. Or my hand. Or-”

“You remember all that?” She cuts him off with a tone of surprise, and he remembers that he forgot to tell her. The scientist’s face turns sheepish. “Bits and pieces.”

“I don’t remember ever kissing your hand?”

“I hardly expect you to. You were still incredibly drunk.” He explains to her. Said hand is stuffed inside his coat pocket, wrapped in coverings and to hide the discoloration and blackening of the flesh. The scar pulses when he’s not paying attention sometimes, but he’s practicing on not noticing it. His favorite distraction was next to him, after all, and looking quite self-conscious.

He watches her face twist with a blush and the chuckle that comes out of his throat is real this time. “I know you don’t mean any of it. No need to feel embarrassed.” 

She’s looked away, but manages to side-eye him anyways. “If you didn’t care for any of that, you should have told me. I would have not done any of it if I knew you weren-”

“Comfortable.” He cuts her off. He didn’t mean to, it’s not good manners, but the word comes out before he can think. “I’m comfortable with you. I don’t mind any of it.”

“Ah.” She thinks for a moment. “Just how comfortable with me ARE you?”

The scientist goes quiet, eyes darting to the window, (the sunset was on it’s last tether, and their cubby was about to be dim in lights as night falls) and when he turns back to her, there’s a hint of mirth on his face that she can’t tell if he’s faking or not. “Comfortable enough to sleep with you, apparently.”

Her mouth drops open before her expression lights up, and a giggle comes from the assistant. “Hey! Teasing and innuendos are MY thing!” She laughs a bubbly laugh. “If anyone hears you saying stuff like that, they’ll think we’re together!”

“That’s the point.” He states. “And don’t you remind me. It’s your fault you’ve rubbed off on me by this point. You’re such a bad influence. I won't be able to call myself a gentleman by the time we get off this train.”

Her laugh ends in a yawn, and she slumps in her seat further. “I don’t think you were ever a gentleman. I think you’re just a nerd that learned some manners.” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, mumbling something she can’t understand under his breath and Willow resigns herself to staring out the window again. The red of the sunset shines through the raindrops on the glass, and as much as she hates the weather, the reflection is a pretty thing to see.

Slowly, she lifts a hand upwards towards the window and sees the little lights, rainbow and small decorate her skin. It’s enchanting, pretty to look at so she holds it there for a moment. If she’s lucky, she’ll dream in those colors. Her mind is tired, her body even more so and she probably won’t get a good night’s rest with the train jolting ever so slightly. The seats were mildly comfortable, but there wasn’t enough room for her to stretch out without lying directly over-

Another hand comes into view, settles over her outstretched one and places it in her lap. She stares at the covering he’s wrapped around his palm and listens to his voice as it falls to a near-whisper. “The sun-rises are prettier. You should get some rest. I can wake you up early to see one, if you want.”

“Same to you.” She doesn’t mean to sound so snappy. “I wanna sleep in though, so don’t worry about it.” Another glance to the outside colors, and she turns around to meet his face. A dark warm glow has been casted through the window, and it makes her miss her lighter so much more. “I’d never thought a ‘man of science’ would have an opinion on if sunrises or sunsets were prettier.”

His eyes are half lidded, and she realizes that he’s slumped in his seat to match her own form. Their shoulders are touching, and she sinks a little further to feel him snug against his coat and decides to blame it on the tiredness if he were to ask. 

Wilson seems to take a deep breath. “The sun is a star. You know I really like the stars.” He looks over to her, and finds her squinting back. She smiles at him. “I don’t need to be a scientist to know that you’ll go blind if you stare at the sun for too long.”

“That’s fine. I can stare at you instead.” He hums. “You’re basically the same.”

A huff of air blows out from her nose, and Willow makes the point decision to bury her face in his shoulder to hide her reddening face. “Yeah, I’m definitely rubbing off on you too much.”   
  


He tilts his head. “You say that like it’s a problem-”

“The fake flirting…” She interrupts him, and for a moment she doesn’t speak, she fidgets against his arm like she’s thinking about her next choice of words very carefully. “It feels real. I guess you really did your research on this whole ‘fake-marriage’ thing.”

“Real.” He repeats, and the word feels very sour on his tongue. “What is real to you?”

The off tone in his voice is enough to bring her eyes up from hiding. “What do you mean?”

“When you say things, or you listen to things, how can you tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t?” He questions her, and his face looks like he’s going to ramble, a habit he’s prone to doing. Willow shifts herself to lean against him more comfortably to listen as he continues. “We have sarcasm. Mockery. Lying. Misunderstandings. But all of those things have solid definitions. Therefore, each one of those are real. Just because someone doesn’t understand a social definition doesn’t make it any less pertaining to the original definition.”

Willow sighs. “I thought you were a scientist, not a psychologist.”

She expects him to comeback with a witty remark of his own, but the way he looks at her is off and there’s a feeling in his gaze that she can’t pinpoint, but it makes her body pause and her mind stop, if only for a second. Wilson looks very tired, there’s a odd resolution in his tone when he speaks. “I’m only curious as to what your definition of ‘real’ means.”

The brunette falls silent, eyes flickering to the window. The sky is now completely dark, and the lack of color compare with memories of familiar tainted skin and murky waters. The deep blue reminds her of something. “Faith, I think.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes urges her to continue, so she does. “For something to be ‘real’, you have to give it meaning, and to give something meaning is to have faith in it. Like you actually believe in it.”

He mulls over her words for a moment. “Logically speaking, that’s-”

“It’s not supposed to be logical. It’s just supposed to be felt.” She cuts him off. “I thought you were asking me the question here?” She pokes at him.

A moment of silence, broken only by the ever on ongoing sound of the train. It’s become white noise now. Wilson finds his throat going dryer by the second. “I think I’m rubbing off onto you too.”

She blinks, then she laughs, and it's plagued with a bitten back yawn and Wilson subconsciously lifts his arm over head so she can lean against him further and have more room to be comfortable. It’s a moment too soon once he realizes he’s done it, and she’s already stretching out and laying her head against his shirt pocket by the time he’s thought about it. 

He makes a quick decision to use his other hand to cover the lighter in the second pocket, and ignores the frown he’s given for the action. Willow sounds groggy when she speaks. “That’s a good one. Maybe I’ll start doing experiments willy-nilly and come up with all sorts of crazy, mad ideas.” She grins. 

He bites his tongue at her choice of wording, but says nothing. “We can do an experiment right now.”

“Oh, really?” She questions. “I’m only down if it involves blowing up the train.”

“No, it’s not something as extravagant as that. That’s very illegal and you should know better by now.” He scolds. A warm smile on her face appears at the inside joke, but it does nothing to quell the nerves for what he’s about to do. “It could be a bit unethical, I warn you.”

She gives him a look of interest, and it’s fascinating, really, how fond of that look he has become. He thanks the coat’s layers and the tickets in his pocket for blocking the sound of his rapid heart beat against her ears. At least, he hopes that’s what they're doing.

Willow teases him. “I’m wanted for arson. Just go for it.”

Those words don’t mean the way he wants them to mean, and he knows better. He certainly does, but it doesn’t stop him from cradling her face, hesitating to see, just for a moment, if she would push him away before kissing her. 

Soft. Gentle. He can taste the sweet hot cider from earlier on her breath and feel the soft surprise in her expression as her pushes their lips to meet. Lingering, like her fingers that are pushing up to his shirt collar and holding the fabric in her hands. The hand around her has graced to the back of her head and the other to her cheek. 

A feeling spikes in him, and whatever that thing is that has taken residence and hostage of his heart has begun to beat rapidly and he starts to feel dizzy from it.

It only last for a few seconds, but pulling away he finds himself disoriented, and Willow is wide-eyed and red-face. Her mouth is twitching upwards before going down again, like she doesn’t know how to react. The pulse beneath his knuckles beat in tandem with his own and Wilson forces himself to take his hand back. 

Silence, and the scientist clears his throat, straightens his collar and tries to speak as calmly as possible. “So. In your honest, professional opinion. Did that feel real to you?” He glaces in her direction. “In your professional opinion, of course.”

She tilts her head one way, then the next, and it occurs to him that maybe she is just as light headed as he is. The feeling that comes with that realization is unprepared for as everything else she’s made him. The sudden aloof smile flashes on her lips, where he was only seconds prior, and only adds onto the nerves. 

She pauses for a moment. “I think you’re a good liar.”

The scientist bites his tongue and doesn’t look at her. “That’s not a appropriate answer-”

“But we promised not to keep secrets anymore. And that goes both ways, you know.” Willow looks at him with something fierce in her eyes. Determination, intention, whatever it may be, it does not help his heart rate or the running thoughts or even the memory of her taste on his mouth. “I think it was real. Like the kind of real that you have to mean it.”

Wilson curses his recent lack of restraint lately. “It was.” He takes a deep breath. “To me, at least. It was.”

He makes doubly sure not to look at her, staring at the door or the floor or the ugly wallpaper they’re stuck with but he does not move. He feels her shift and lifts his arm again out of instinct. Willow settles her head in his lap, laying on her back and staring up at the scientist whose face is red and throat is close and finds that she is still, beyond everything, completely comfortable.

A small touch to his face, and Wilson looks down. She takes two fingers, presses them to her lips and paps them onto his. “Wake me up to see the sunrise if you’re still up.” She has a loopy smile. His own face tries to mimic it. “I wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

She doesn’t wait for his answer, turning sideways so her face is buried in his stomach and curling up into a position that he finds familiar and comfortable, like his own pyromaniac teddy bear. Like the one she had to leave behind. 

Wilson finds her warmth on him soothing the anxiety, and runs a hand through her hair in hopes that it will soothe her own. He sees the small shake of her shoulders. She’s just better at hiding it. Eventually she stops, and the moonlight casts an odd glow over her through the window, like a scene out of a movie he can’t not watch. 

His cheeks begin to hurt. Wilson doesn’t know when he started smiling and how long he’s had such a goofy looking one on his face.

(And Willow is certain she heard him whisper something addressed to her when he thinks she’s asleep, but the train tracks bury it away.)


End file.
